


house rules

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alderaanian DJ, Bittersweet, Canto Bight, Fashion & Couture, Introspection, M/M, POV Second Person, Pining, Pre-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, post-coital conversations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-08-13 08:36:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20171329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: Ninety-nine of one-hundred sexual encounters that take place on Canto Bight are acts of aggression, weapons in a war against a foe that changes daily. Nobody else would be caught dead making a mistake while making love. That makes DJ a rare, precious commodity and you something of an outlier for indulging.





	house rules

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Filigranka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/gifts).

This mantle sat upon your shoulders more easily in the past, you think, as you pull your shirt back on, snap each of your garters back into place, the ones around your thighs, your calves, even the ones wrapped around your biceps to keep your sleeves in place. Fashionable hems change by the day and you don’t always have the time to find a tailor.

It just wouldn’t do for the line of our armor to fail you at an inopportune moment, not when the world of Canto Bight is so brutal and you are her most daring protector. That’s what Maz calls you anyway, but you’re tired of running intel from vapid quintillionaires and corrupt politicians to good-hearted, but ultimately clueless revolutionaries, and you think she’s got a crush on you—or proclaims as much just to flatter your vanity, to keep that intel coming.

You never wanted to be a protector, daring or otherwise. It happens from time to time regardless.

She probably realizes your vanities lie along a different path, but that’s how you intend it to be, innuendo and possibility. This is the one thing you don’t wish to share explicitly and she would know if you were to play it any other way but casual and unconcerned. You like her and she likes you and you don’t wake up with bile in the back of your throat when you’ve done a bit of work for her. Sometimes she takes you out to dinner and it’s all very nice. You flirt a bit; she flirts a bit. You go your separate ways, secure that your friendship is cemented for another round of favors and at least double the escapades.

You wear the red-plom bloom she gave you long before Cantonica’s glitterati determined black and white and gold are in. Everything else is out. It’s a little gauche for someone of your status, that splash of color, but you are sentimental and you’ve always thought it a charming thing and it’s nice to rebel sometimes.

That’s also the only explanation for _his_ continued presence in your hotel room.

“Why do you…” DJ is saying, his nose wrinkled, as though he has any room to talk, what with his ragged socks and frayed everything, “…with all of that?” Once, very long ago, he favored braids and quilted silks and believed in things like democracy and honorable behavior. That was before you met him, but you did your due diligence, found records even the Empire thought lost forever and for which the Empire would have paid handsomely.

Nothing in the grand, great data streams of the galaxy is truly lost to people like you and if you have an exquisitely printed holo of DJ-from-before at one of Alderaan’s (may it slumber peacefully in the hearts of those who remember) satellite universities elsewhere in the galaxy, smiling and happy and so painfully young, nobody but you needs to know.

It’s from the day before Alderaan’s destruction and you are reasonably sure that DJ would kill you with his bare hands if he found out you have it.

“If you must know the truth, darling, it’s because I like the way you fumble the clips.” You favor him with a pointed grin as you pull your trousers over your hips. “For a slicer of your caliber, you are so clumsy with your hands. I find it diverting.” The truth is rather more complicated or pathetic depending on your point of view. Ninety-nine of one-hundred sexual encounters that take place on Canto Bight are acts of aggression, weapons in a war against a foe that changes daily. Nobody else would be caught dead making a mistake while making love. That makes DJ a rare, precious commodity and you something of an outlier for indulging.

Some might call you a pervert for it, but they wouldn’t say it to your face where it would do the least amount of damage to your reputation. No, they’d save it for their friends and compatriots, your enemies, maybe even past lovers who might carry an ax they’re prepared to grind against you.

They’ll never find out about these little tête-à-têtes, of course. If they do, you’ll be the one committing a bit of murder. Those sleeve garters are good for more than one thing and it’s ensuring blood doesn’t stain your cuffs.

People here have done worse for their lovers. Hell, they’ve done worse _to_ their lovers for fun. This fact doesn’t make you a bad person.

DJ only offers a huff of disdain as he haphazardly pulls on his boots, sliding his toes into the wrong one on the first try. He doesn’t realize the enormity of the secret you’ve just told him. He just thinks you’re mocking him. And that’s part of the joy, too. He cares so little for the one product on Canto Bight that can’t be bought or sold or traded away: the truth. And a damning truth at that, the most valuable kind.

You could tell him you love him, but he wouldn’t believe you.

You’re not sure you would believe you either and you, unlike him, actually know how you feel. You just wish you didn’t.

Your palm skims over the soft, silken fabric of your shirt as you button the neck and adjust the collar. You are yourself again and the weight of it is too much for you and there’s not a damned thing you can do to change it. In ten minutes, if that, you’ll be back on the floor and today you intend to get caught in a scheme that’ll give you a good reason to swap to the craps tables. Probably it’ll hurt. Casino security will rough you up a bit. If you’re lucky, you’ll start a trend and everyone will come in with lips they’ve bloodied with friendly fists and biting kisses. It’ll last a week before they get bored and find something new to focus on, the unexpected splashes of red completely gone save for your lapel pin. This fascination with clear-cut black and white is old and tired, but it clings more tenaciously than any other trend.

The taste makers call it classic; you think it a bore.

He climbs to his feet, his own armor back in place, hat perched at a ridiculous cant on his head, and twirls toward you. “That was f-fun, I suppose,” he says before ripping your shirt from its perfect tuck, damn the clips as they scrape against your thighs in protest.

It was more than fun, but you won’t lower yourself to his level by admitting as much. He won’t come back if he thinks he’s won anything from you, not even fleeting affection. You both tried that once, an equitable, reciprocal relationship; it didn’t work.

“Maybe next time I’ll show you how to do the t-thing with the—” He clicks his tongue and you flush and you hope he doesn’t notice it. This is the one shade of red you don’t ever want anywhere near your person, ugly and unflattering. His cackle follows him into the hall as you hastily fix your clothing, glaring at his retreating back.

It’s all so much bullshit, of course. You know him better than you know yourself and this isn’t him, not really, but he has no reason to find whatever moral center exists inside of him and you can’t force the issue. That’s not your job in this galaxy and you wouldn’t want it to be anyway. Most days, you can’t even find your own moral center and you’d rather not be a hypocrite when you can avoid it.

This, you’ve come to accept, is what you have; it might be all you ever get.

And you’re unwilling to cheat the house on it by trying for more.


End file.
